


This Paint-By-Numbers Life

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when you wander down a very different path, somehow you still get where you're meant to be. (AU where Pete never signed Panic to his label).</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Paint-By-Numbers Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elucreh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elucreh/gifts).



Spencer's not in the habit of taking advice from Ryan Ross these days. When it comes to music, though, Ryan still knows his shit, and Spencer's still inclined to listen; when Ryan scrawls something on his Facebook wall one day ( _Hey buddy long time no see. Heads up, a band I think are going to be big are playing a gig in Vegas next week, you should catch them while they're in town_ ) Spencer checks the link out in another tab, listens to a couple of their songs on Myspace, then writes back _Yea I might check them out, thanks for the tip._

He almost forgets, after that. A few days later, on his lunch break, he sees a flier that rings a distant bell somewhere in his head, and on Wednesday night, after work, he exchanges his shirt and intermittently resented tie for jeans and a t-shirt, and heads down to the bar they're playing. The place is far from crowded when he gets there; most of the people there are seated at tables and in booths, barely paying attention to the opener, a guy with an acoustic guitar on his knee.

Spencer takes a seat at the bar, and orders a mojito. When it comes, he stirs the ice around with his straw, listening to the faint glassy clinking, and tries not to feel out of place. He should have brought someone along; maybe he could've mentioned the gig to someone at work, or asked one of his friends from college. When he's exhausted the scanty reserves of entertainment that the ice cubes can offer, he tries to focus on the opener, even though he can barely pick out the faint thread of sound over the feedback from the speakers and the noise of conversation.

The guy's hair is shiny and dark and just a little too stylishly overlong, and his fingers move adroitly over the strings and frets. The strap over one shoulder is a bright medley of primary colours and wavy-edged sunbursts, one sneakered foot tapping silently to the beat of whatever he's trying to play. Spencer drinks deeply and keeps his eyes on the singer, pretending an interest that hopefully obscures the fact that he has no one to talk to.

The bar fills up steadily over the next quarter hour, until it's standing room only. At some point – Spencer can't see him anymore, through the throng – the opener stops playing, and with a further blast of white noise, melody lost in the volume, recorded music takes up the slack, and the energy in the bar becomes restless, waiting.

Spencer can't really remember why he wanted to see the band; he orders a third drink, and tosses up the idea of leaving. It seems to take forever for the bartender to get around to mixing his drink. Spencer's flipping through the messages on his phone when someone leans against the bar next to him and tries vainly to flag down one of the servers.

"It's going to be a mission," Spencer says in camaraderie. "I don't like your chances," he adds, and blinks when the guy turns his head to grin at him. It's the guy who was singing, and the smile is weirdly familiar. Close up, he's a little older than Spencer had assumed, past college-age, and in close up the blurred features resolve, in close up, into marked, demonstrative eyebrows and an unusually full mouth, a nose thin at the bridge and generous in spread; a miscellany of features that resolves into an undeniably aesthetic whole.

"Mission impossible?" the guy asks, and makes a show of setting his jaw and throwing out his chest. "No mission is too difficult, no task too onerous-"

Spencer can practically see the cape billowing from the squared shoulders; the dude's seriously lacking Captain America's bulk, though. Which is not to say that the shoulders aren't nice shoulders. "You were on before," he says, and gestures to the cleared area of floor that functions as the stage. "Playing guitar."

"Oh, yeah," the guy says, leaning on his elbow, and smiles the broad delighted grin again, at a wattage that the crashing obviousness of Spencer's statement doesn't really merit. "Did you catch my set? My roommate knows the guy who owns this bar, and he let me open. I even get ten percent of the cover charge, and let me tell you, paying gigs are rare enough that I'm probably going to be stuck doing the dishes forever in recompense, and I'm so grateful I don't even care."

"Yeah, it – you look like you've been playing a long time," Spencer says, and then mentally slaps himself upside the head. _Sound_ like you've been playing, shit.

The guy doesn't seem to catch the slip, though; just nods and says "Pretty much since elementary school, yeah."

"Do I know you?" Spencer asks, a little abruptly. "I mean, not in a skeezy or creepy way, but you seem really familiar, and it's bugging me."

"I don't think so?" The guy squints at him and adds doubtfully "Maybe? Do you hang out around Paradise Road sometimes - Oh, dude, here's your drink." He moves his arm, and the bartender sets Spencer's glass and change down and begins to turn away; the guy catches her by the arm, though, and says "Long Island Iced Tea? Please?" with another of the bright, white smiles, and wonder of wonders, the bartender doesn't shrug him off and serve someone further down the bar, but rolls her eyes and takes his money.

"Skills," Spencer says, tipping his glass in admiration. He misjudges it a little, and a small wave of liquid sloshes over the edge and runs down his fingers, falling in a faint spatter on his jeans. "Fuck."

"You don't even know," the guy says. "My skills, they are legion. _Legend._ "

Spencer must be drunker than he thought, because he laughs and says, "Maybe you should show me. My skills are pretty lacking, as, you know, I've just demonstrated."

"It would be a charitable act," the guy agrees. His eyes flicker, up and down and up again, and then he smiles again, slower and more deliberate than before, with perfect complicity. "I could give you some pointers. You probably need to go home and change your jeans, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Spencer says, rubbing his palms nervously over his thighs, the coarse denim a warm burr against his skin.

"You want to wait and see the band?"

"Fuck the band." Spencer grins, feeling the spike of adrenaline. "You want to wait for your drink?"

"I really don't."

Spencer's vaguely aware of exchanging names at some point – if not in the car, then once they get to Spencer's place – but his attention is engaged quite definitively elsewhere by that point, and it doesn't stick.

It's the fastest, smoothest pick-up he's made in forever, maybe ever, and however good Ryan is at picking bands that are going to blow up, Spencer's pretty sure that it's worth skipping the gig.

-

He's woken by muffled cursing.

"Shit, I didn't mean to fall asleep here," the guy from last night says kind of loudly, and right by Spencer's ear.

Spencer makes a disgruntled noise and rolls ponderously over. Most of the sheet rolls with him, and the guy says "Oh hey, I'm _naked_ here," and tries to pull it back, which is incongruous enough with what Spencer's seen of his character that Spencer opens one incredulous eye and stares.

"Oh, I don't mind being naked," the guy clarifies. "Obviously. Naked is good. I love naked. I _do_ mind being cold."

"Sorry." Spencer spends a few minutes in the nearly vain attempt to extricate himself from the sheet, curling around and under him in lovingly claustrophobic embrace, while the guy watches him struggle.

"Hmm. Maybe I did mean to fall asleep, after all."

Spencer tosses him a few fractions of bedlinen and ignores him in favour of groping for his phone, drawing it over and holding it waveringly a few inches above his face. "Unnatural," he mutters. "It's seven-thirty, holy fuck. On a Saturday. How are you so awake?"

"I still have to work," the guy says brightly. "I have a shift at midday, so I should get going. Can I use your shower?"

"Go ahead," Spencer says vaguely. "To your left. I'm going back to sleep, you can let yourself out."

The guy throws off the sheet and makes his way to the bathroom. Spencer watches him go, eyes half-closed, and enjoys the view. He doesn't manage to fall back asleep, even though the white noise of the shower is faint through the wall.

He's given up trying and is pulling on a pair of boxers when the guy comes out, damply rosy, rubbing one hand briskly through his hair and shaking off the water. He still looks familiar, niggling in Spencer's hindbrain somewhere. He knows him from somewhere, or he reminds him of someone, but he can't think who. Someone in elementary school? From a party, or another gig? A class in college?

"Oh," the guy says. "Morning. Spencer, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Honesty is probably the best policy; it's worked for Spencer before. "I'm sorry, I don't remember –"

"Brendon."

"Oh," Spencer says blankly. Gears grind into motion and then lock, alarmingly, into place. "Brendon. Brendon Urie?"

Brendon stops, arrested in the act of reaching for his discarded jeans. "Yeah. _Do_ I know you?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, you do. I mean, I don't know if you remember, but we were in a band together for a couple of months, in high school. I played the drums." He laughs shortly and shakes his head. "Shit, I must have been _gone_ last night. You don't even look all that different, it's just – "

This Brendon is comfortable in his skin ( _and how_ , a small and treacherous part of his brain leers). It's not the different haircut or the lack of glasses; the features haven't changed much, but everything else has. _That_ Brendon wasn't attractive, in a deeper way than just the mushroom-shaped haircut and the glasses fixed with tape, manic and shaky and nervous; and this older Brendon is, and knows it.

This Brendon squints dubiously at him, taking a seat on the corner of the bed, one hand holding the towel tight around his hips. "From - from Panic At The Disco? Because you don't look – You look pretty different. I mean, the beard. And Spencer wasn't – _you_ weren't all, uh." He bites at his lip and gestures vaguely above head height with the flat of his hand. "Tall, and stuff."

Spencer's jaw tightens at both at the name and the memory. He doesn't need to be reminded; he remembers what he looked like at sixteen, seventeen all too well. The pale, pudgy, jowly baby face, belligerent blue eyes and set jaw, the hair spiked and later dyed dark and hanging lank.

"And – the shoulders."

"I'm pretty sure I always had shoulders," Spencer says dryly. "I wasn't the hottest of guys, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't actually deformed."

"And the freckles!" Brendon adds, absolutely inconsequentially. Spencer cuts a look at him.

"I always had freckles."

"Not like this, you didn't," Brendon says darkly, and then there isn't much left to say. They look at each other and look away, and then look back again. Brendon smiles hesitantly. "So. Well."

"We waited for you," Spencer says abruptly. "I think Ryan though you were going to show up, right to the last minute."

"I thought you guys would cancel," Brendon says, the smile wavering and then disappearing. "You cancelled, right? Spencer."

Spencer shakes his head and Brendon looks away.

"Don't worry about it," Spencer says. "It's not like anything was going to come of it, anyway."

"It must have sucked."

"It was forever ago," Spencer says, and the tone says _drop it._

Brendon doesn't say anything else; he gets to his feet and pulls his clothes together in a pile, skimming into his boxers and then his shirt, simultaneously keeping the towel wrappedneatly in place. It's stupid, but Spencer feels more naked now than before, standing here in his boxers, now that it's no longer exactly with a stranger. He wonders if Brendon feels it, too.

"We should meet up some time, catch up," Spencer says lamely. "It's been, uh. It's been a while-" His eyes catch on the red mark just under Brendon's jaw, dark against his fair skin, and the sentence shears off, broken-edged.

"Yeah, maybe," Brendon says, equally vague, briskly zipping up his jeans. He wipes his palms against his thighs and takes his shirt from Spencer; then looks up, eyes dark and densely unrevealing. "Have a beer, something?"

Spencer watches, fascinated, as Brendon pulls on his jacket. "Yeah," he says. "Leave me your number."

-

 _Ryan posted something on your Wall and wrote:_

 _"Hey did you see the band? Good show?"_

 _To see your Wall or to write on Ryan's Wall, follow the link below:  
http://www.facebook.com/n/?profile.php&v=feed&id=55$5R34525&story_fbid=1855R69539*525&mid=17af2d1G308e5#55rG34b2f7cG1_

 _Thanks,  
The Facebook Team _

"No, something came up," Spencer writes. Ryan doesn't reply.

-

(The band broke up in late summer, during a practice that became a screaming explosion, but the death knell came a week later. Spencer was supposed to be babysitting the girls, but he leaves them on their own – and later his parents will be furious at him for that, and he'll be grounded for a month, and feel sick with guilt whenever he looks at his little sisters, but Ryan sounded breathless and desperate on the phone, Ryan needed him, and he got on his bike and rode over to the building where they rent a practice space. It was worth it for the look of profound relief in Ryan's eyes when he tore the door open and saw him; it blazed there for a second, then dimmed almost entirely.

"Brendon's still not here," he said in a hoarse, fierce whisper. "He's not answering his phone."

"He quit, Ryan," Spencer said, matter-of-fact, "we should have called this off, I told you –" but Ryan shook his head.

"He knows what a big deal this is. He wouldn't skip it because of some stupid argument." He sounded terse, certain, but his eyes were huge and scared.

"Yeah, well, I hope so," Spencer said, tilting his head at the car pulling up on the other side of the street, "because I think that's Him now."

He said _Him_ the way Ryan's being saying it for weeks. The car door opened and a guy climbed out – a short, young looking guy in a hoodie, his hands in his pockets, but Spencer knew it was Pete Wentz From Fall Out Boy because of the little hiss of air beside him, Ryan drawing in his breath.

"Call Brendon from your phone and see if he'll answer _you_ ," he said, and then he stepped forward, chin up, and said "Pete? I'm Ryan Ross," in the calmest and most level of tones.

"Awesome," the guy said, flashing broad white teeth. "I seriously couldn't stop playing your demo last week, so I'm looking forward to hearing how it sounds live. You guys write a mean hook."

Brendon didn't answer Spencer, either, and Spencer fell in behind Ryan and Pete Wentz From Fall Out Boy as they walked down the hall into the practice space. The drums were set up, and the mics and Ryan's guitar, but to Spencer it seemed small and glaringly empty.

"This is Spencer," Ryan said, without looking away from Pete. "He's our drummer."

"Awesome, awesome." Pete glanced around and seated himself in one of the folding chairs, one leg crossed over the other. "Where are the rest of you?"

Spencer exchanged a panicked glance with Ryan, who smiled again, that fake smooth smile. "Our singer's coming," he said, sounding relaxed and absolutely certain. "He might be a little late, though, he's got some family stuff. Our bassist actually quit last week, but we're already looking for a replacement."

"Yeah, line-up changes happen a lot early on," Pete agreed, sounding reassuring and faintly wary at the same time. "He didn't do any of the writing?"

"No, Brendon and I do that," Ryan said, trying a little too hard to sound confident. "I do the lyrics. And Spencer writes his drum parts."

"Uh-huh."

"Our singer's just going to be a little longer," Ryan added. "You want to hear some of the stuff we've been working on more recently?"

"No problem," Pete said, gamely enough, and he listened to the new demo and tapped his foot, but the time dragged on and on. Calls kept going through to Brendon's voicemail as frustration built under Spencer's breastbone, churning and crashing; Ryan talked too fast, his voice brittle, and Pete kept checking the clock on his phone, beating time with his foot against the floor.

In the end, he had to leave. He gave them a pep talk, first, about how much potential they have, and how sometimes it takes a little time and maturity to get things together, and how he expects they're going to do great, wonderful things in a few years; underneath, Spencer heard _high school, amateur,_ for all Pete's kind eyes and the little pat he gave Ryan's shoulder on his way out.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time," Ryan said, chin up.

They watched Pete get into his car and pull away from the curb, and Spencer let out a long breath. "You did really well," he said hesitantly, brushing his shoulder against Ryan's, wishing he could do more.

Ryan didn't say anything, just turned on his heel and walked over to his own car. He slammed the door and drove off, and Spencer stood there in the parking lot with his stupid bike, slowly uncurling his tight-wound fists and watching with a sense of dislocation as the returning flow of blood flushed into the yellow-white of his knuckles.)

-

 _Zzzzzzzz_. Spencer leans in and presses the button. "Hey."

"It's Brendon."

"Okay, come up. Second floor, first on your left."

"I remember."

The whole thing seems like a really, really bad idea, in the minute and a half between the buzz of the intercom and the dubious-sounding knock on his front door. Spencer feels weird: half-sick, half slightly buzzing with anticipation. He's not sure whether he's anticipating disaster or something better; he never planned on calling Brendon, even when he was asking for his number in the first place. It had just seemed like a really, really bad idea to let Brendon walk out his front door with no way to contact him.

He can't really explain to himself why he called Brendon tonight.

"Hey," he says again, inanely, opening the door. Somewhere, the timpani starts up, low and steady, rising. "Um, come in."

Brendon's standing there, loose and relaxed with his hands in his pockets, his arms and the curl of his neck brown and gold against the starkness of his white t-shirt. He wears his jeans a lot tighter now.

"Okay," Brendon says, smiling a little. He clears his throat. "Uh, I need to get past you."

"Oh," Spencer says, straightening up abruptly and stepping back. "Yeah, come in. For real, this time."

"Thanks," Brendon says, raising his eyebrows a little as he walks past.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Spencer asks, feeling awkward and off-balance. This is – he's not sure what this is. Not a date. Maybe a hook-up. Maybe just two guys who knew each other back when they were in high school, catching up a bit.

Brendon asks for a beer, and Spencer goes into the kitchen, grateful for something to do and for a second to pull his head together. "Light beer okay with you?"

"Shit, yeah," Brendon calls back. He's sprawled on Spencer's couch when he comes back into the living room, flicking through his phone, dark eyebrows drawn together and expression quite shut and closed-in. His eyes rise when Spencer comes closer, and the animation comes back into his face, like a light switching on.

"All I got, at the moment," Spencer apologises, taking a seat.

"Seriously, dude, I've done half-hour sets for a six pack before," Brendon says. "And I probably will do so again. It's more than cool."

"So you still play," Spencer says. "I mean, obviously you still play, but. Professionally."

"Yeah, if you can call it that," Brendon says, sounding off-hand. "I haven't exactly quit my day job – day _jobs_ , but I play when I can. Sometimes for pay, sometimes just for the exposure."

"Just you?" Spencer regrets saying it a moment later, but Brendon tilts his head.

"I don't have a band at the moment, no. I haven't exactly had the best experiences with them, so I'm working the singer-songwriter thing." His eyes narrow a little. "What about you? You still play?"

Spencer looks away. "Not for a few years, no. I mean, I kept it up – I had another band, after, in college, but it wasn't really serious, and." He shrugs. "I don't really have time these days, with my job."

"You should make time," Brendon says, gently chiding, and it's joking but Spencer's on the edge of snapping something. He swallows down the urge and smiles.

"I play the drums on RockBand sometimes. That's got to count for something, right?"

"Now you're just trying to hurt me," Brendon says, then holds up his hands, palms-out. "Kidding, kidding. I love RockBand. No hate here."

They drink in silence for a few moments – Brendon is incapable of sitting still for long, Spence notices, and part of him adds _still_ , which is weird, because it wasn't like they were close, it was years ago, and Brendon's mannerisms are not something Spencer would've said he remembered.

"Are you still in touch with the others?" Brendon asks finally. "Ryan, and Brent." He pauses, then asks the question Spencer's pretty much expecting. "What's Ryan up to?"

"Not really," Spencer says. "Ryan's been living in LA for years. He moved out there not long after – well, ages ago, now."

"Did they ever make up?"

"No." Spencer turns the bottle around in his hands, and then sets it down on the edge of the coffee table. "Did you come here to talk about that?"

Brendon bites his lip, a small nervous gesture that's not really nervous these days, just a time-filler, an exaggerated show of restraint. His dark eyes are sharp. "Well. I thought –" he waves one hand, vague. "Beer?"

"Beer," Spencer agrees, and then he leans forward and kisses Brendon. His lips are closed under Spencer's, but then they open, and their mouths slide slickly together, apart, together again. Spencer's leaning forward with his weight on his elbows, Brendon leaning so far forward he's barely sitting on the couch anymore.

"Wait, wait. Come over here," Brendon says, and Spencer rounds the table and sits down on the couch beside him. Brendon puts his hand on his neck, warm and firm, and pulls him in, and then he's kissing Spencer, wet and a little savage, quite different from the slow, diffident kiss over the coffee table. Their teeth clink together and Brendon catches Spencer's lip with his teeth, but Spencer doesn't care, doesn't care.

They make out on the couch for a while, grinding against each other and making half-hearted attempts at taking their clothes off. "Shit," Spencer says, trying to get Brendon's fly down, which is kind of difficult with Brendon lying under him and Spencer being somewhat reluctant to lift his hips too much. "This is kind of hard."

Brendon laughs against his neck, a hot burst of air. "No shit," he says, off-key, and wriggles in a way that's meant to help Spencer with his pants, but which is actually kind of distracting. "Fuck, this isn't working." He makes a grasping gesture with his hand and stops it, cut off.

"No," Spencer says, and Brendon stills. "I can – wait a second." He pulls himself off of Brendon, feeling strange and off-balance, and gets down on his knees beside the couch. "Sit up, and I'll suck you off."

Brendon breathes in, audibly, and pulls himself upright. His eyes are wide and dark and his mouth is so red Spencer leans up and kisses him again.

"You have to get these down," he says, pulling back and tugging at Brendon's jeans. "Why do you wear them so tight, dude?"

"I like them tight."

Spencer can't help it, fuck the mood: "That's what he said," he says, and leans against Brendon's knees, panting with suppressed laughter.

Brendon starts laughing too, deep and delighted; after a few moments, it trails off, and Spencer feels Brendon's hands in his hair, stroking. They're gentle, and then they catch in his hair and tug softly, and Spencer looks up, sobering.

"So."

"Jeans _off,_ " Spencer says. "And boxers, if you're wearing them."

"What kind of guy do you think I am?" Brendon mutters, lifting his hips and sliding his jeans down past his knees. There isn't anything else in the way, and Brendon chuckles and says "Okay, maybe you'd be right."

"Mm," Spencer says noncommittally, refraining from saying anything stupid like _my kind of guy_. He takes Brendon's dick in his hand and squeezes gently, sliding his hand up and down; Brendon sighs and melts back into the couch with a languorous stretch of spine that's purely beautiful, eyes closing.

He fumbles in his pocket for a condom with his other hand and tears it carefully open with his teeth. "Okay," he says, rolling it on, slow and practiced. "You're good?"

"Could be better," Brendon murmurs, eyelids flickering open, and then makes a much more appreciative noise, low in his throat. "Oh, fuck. Yeah, that's better."

Spencer's never liked the taste of latex, but the noises Brendon makes are worth it. His face is worth it, too, whenever Spencer looks up; slack with pleasure, and then responsive. Looking's safe; Brendon's eyes are always closed, every glance.

Brendon finishes with a soft sigh, almost a surprise after his louder sounds. Spencer settles back and looks at him, and after a second Brendon opens his eyes and smiles sleepily at him.

"Thanks, man," he says. "You want-?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, urgent, and Brendon pulls him onto the couch, clumsily down on top of him, and gets a hand into his jeans.

He strokes the hair off Spencer's forehead with his free hand, muttering things like "Yeah, there you go," and "It's okay, I got you, okay," and when they're done Spencer doesn't know what to say or how to look at him. It feels too uncomfortably like there were other people in the room with them, among them his own miserable sixteen year old self, scowling in the corner with his arms folded.

He breathes raggedly, aware of Brendon's hand flat against his stomach, under his shirt, and his breath warm on the back of his neck. "Okay," Brendon says into the silence, when it's gone on too long. "I should, uh."

"Yeah," Spencer agrees, and pulls himself painfully upright. Brendon rolls off the couch and pulls his jeans up, fastens them, and stands there as if he's waiting for something.

"Thanks for coming by," Spencer says, and Brendon shrugs.

"Not a hardship."

-

( _Our bassist quit last week_ , he said, like it was an amicable parting of ways, cut and dried and closed, like Brent hadn't walked into that very practice room red and furious, like Ryan hadn't stood there shifty-eyed, finger-combing his dyed dark hair and fiddling with his gauge, trying to brush over it and get them to focus on practice.

"You _fucked_ her," Brent shouted over him, face the colour of a brick, and there were absolutely tears in his eyes. Seeing them had made Spencer feel strange and uncomfortable. "You fucked _her_ ," he repeated, much quieter but still vehement, just on the edge of raggedness. His voice had trembled on the last word in a way that had reminded Spencer of how Brent always said his girlfriend's name, soft and a little proud.

His big awkward hands opened and closed as if he wanted to punch Ryan, but instead they yelled at each other.

Spencer can remember his hands tightening on his drumsticks, and looking over at Brendon, sitting off to the side while Brent and Ryan fought, his chin tucked in, and looking miserable, as if he had more than this fight to worry him. He hadn't been able to sit still even during that, and maybe that's why Spencer remembers that about him, the way he kept picking at his sleeve and his foot kept jiggling unhappily in mid-air.

After Brent stormed out, slamming the door, Ryan had taken a few deep breaths and said "It's okay, we can get a replacement."

"I quit," Brendon said softly.

Spencer knew that Brent was Brendon's friend from school, had brought him along in the first place, but he knew even then that it was more than loyalty to Brent that made hunch into himself in the corner.

Ryan had said "You can't." Not disbelievingly - absolutely certain, like an article of faith, but Brendon had walked out anyway.)

-

They meet up a few times after that, always at Spencer's place; quick, hot, and fumbling, about once a week. Sometimes less, sometimes more. Spencer's aware of how much he lies to himself about how much he looks forward to when they hook up.

The problem with seeing Brendon is that Spencer finds himself thinking about high school all over again - things that he doesn't think about anymore, except when he gets a message from Ryan that runs through him like a pinprick. The sex is worth it, but being around Brendon makes him _feel_ sixteen and seventeen again, pudgy and insecure, wanting things he can't have; just focused differently, this time. Brendon brings it all constantly to the surface, even though they never talk about it.

The closest they get is one afternoon, on the couch, the fourth or maybe the fifth time they hook up. Brendon says "You know, I wish I'd known back then that you were, uh. That it wasn't just me."

Spencer pauses, hearing the double meaning. Taking off his shirt gives him a few seconds of something to do, face hidden, and when he pulls clear he just shrugs and says "I pretty much didn't know myself back then."

"Yeah, but," Brendon persists, and Spencer kisses him just under his jaw, a sensitive spot that makes Brendon close his eyes and tilt his head back, and stop talking.

"Hey," Brendon says one Friday, hip against the doorframe. It's the first time he's come by without texting, or without Spencer texting him. It gives Spencer a jolt, opening the door to him unexpectedly; something runs through him and leaves him wordless. "Are you busy? Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, stepping aside. "Yeah, of course. Did you – "

"I was just passing by, and wondered if you were busy," Brendon says, eyes round and limpid with innocence. "Or if you wanted to get busy."

Spencer groans. "That's so bad," he says, " _so_ bad," but he has a hand fisted in Brendon's shirt already.

They make it to his bedroom and get all their clothes off this time, which doesn't happen all that often; it's Friday night and he's got nowhere to be, so Spencer takes his time and fucks Brendon slow and careful until he's almost sobbing for it.

"Oh, that was good," Brendon says afterwards, stretching enormously and luxuriously. "I want – can I smoke? Is that okay?"

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Sure, I don't care."

Brendon kisses his shoulder and leans over the side of the bed, fumbling for his jeans. When he finds his cigarettes, he lights one and stretches out again, sighing deeply on the exhale.

Spencer lets him take a few drags, then elbows him until he passes it over. It draws out the usual rush to get dressed and go; they lie there for a while, smoking.

"God, I needed that," Brendon says. "Not as good as weed, but still good."

"Yeah?" Spencer says, and rolls out of bed.

"Oh, baby, I love to watch you go," Brendon calls out gleefully after him, and Spencer grins at him over his shoulder. He rummages in a drawer, returning with a baggie and papers that he tosses into Brendon's lap.

"You are the man," Brendon says, opening the bag and breathing in. "Oh, dude."

Spencer lies down again, sprawling lazily, and watches Brendon roll the joint with neat, deft movements, fingers quick. They pass the blunt back and forth for a while, and then they have lazy, sated sex on the rumpled sheets, slow and good right down to Spencer's bones.

They lie there together peacefully afterwards, and Spencer's glad that Brendon's not in a hurry to leave, for once. He's glad that he doesn't want Brendon to leave in a hurry, for once. He shuts his eyes and rolls onto his stomach, feeling Brendon nuzzle at his shoulder, and rubs his fingers idly over the broad slim stretch of Brendon's back, up and down, down and up; it's almost hypnotic.

"Mm," Brendon murmurs. "I'm starving," he says, and licks Spencer's shoulder. "You got anything to eat here?"

"Fuck, me too," Spencer says, struggling upright.

They call a pizza; Spencer has to pull on his jeans in order to answer the door and pay the delivery guy. The pizza smells and tastes like heaven: deep-dish, all cheese and garlic and sausage.

"Oh man, this is heaven," Brendon says blissfully, with the closed-eyed beatific look he gets during sex sometimes, sitting naked and cross-legged on Spencer's bed and waving a slice of pizza in gesticulation.

Looking at him makes something in Spencer twinge. When they finish the pizza he watches Brendon licks a spot of sauce off the corner of his mouth half-unconsciously.

"What?" Brendon asks, looking up.

"I'm hungry again," Spencer says, and they go for a third round with a happy burst of energy.

Brendon rolls over, afterwards, and sits up.

"You don't have to rush off," Spencer says, forcing himself to stay awake. "You could stay."

Brendon laughs softly as he moves around the room, pulling his clothes together. Spencer catches his wrist, and Brendon screws up his nose and grins down at him. "What, you want to go again?"

"Give me an hour," Spencer says weakly, and then, eyes lingering somewhere below Brendon's sternum, "Half an hour."

"I can't," Brendon says, shaking off his hand and getting dressed. "I wish I could," he adds, and he sounds sincere, "but I have to get to work." He pats the nearest part of Spencer – his foot, under the sheet – and then he leaves.

 

-

Something about that hook-up throws Spencer off. He thinks about too often over the next week, a happy haze of sex and laughter, how much he wanted Brendon to stay. It throws him off balance, and when he's sent out of town for an afternoon meeting with the office there, he's almost relieved about having to cancel their next meet-up.

"Cancel?" Brendon says, cheerfully enough. "No problem. Everything cool with you, dude?"

"Yeah, yeah," Spencer assures him. "I just have a meeting on Thursday, that's all. In L.A., actually. Work are assholes, so they're not giving me travel expenses beyond the plane tickets, but at least it's something different, right?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, his voice a little flat in Spencer's ear, blurred by the phone line. "Well, you have a good time."

"Ha, right."

"Call me next time you want to get off," Brendon says, and the phone goes dead against his ear.

When he mentions he's going to L.A. in his away message, Ryan IMs him with _dude where are you staying? Mi casa est su casa or at least my couch is_. Spencer would have ignored it a few months ago, travel expenses or not, but he's been thinking lately about stuff he managed to ignore all through college, and it seems like time.

-

Ryan meets him at the airport. It's been a couple of years since Spencer saw him last, and he's not sure what he expected, but he doesn't feel much of anything beyond bemusement. Ryan is tall and thin, wearing a denim jacket and striped pants, and his hair clusters around his head in a halo of thick curls. Half his face is covered by mirrored aviator sunglasses, and underneath it his mouth is a straight line. He's wearing heavy leather gloves that come up to his elbows and that Spencer only realises are driving gloves when they get in the car, and he looks somewhere between hipster chic and purely demented.

"Spencer," he says. His voice is flat, but the word comes out sounding a little shy and hesitant. "How are you doing?"

"Great," Spencer says, and then there's an awkward pause while they stand there, neither of them sure whether to go in for a hug or not.

"Let me take your bag," Ryan says, patently seizing on this as a way out of the impasse, and though Spencer tells him that it's fine and barely weighs anything, Ryan makes a great show of shouldering Spencer's half-empty duffel and carrying it twelve yards to the car.

Conversation in the car on the drive into the city isn't much easier; Ryan breaks off every few sentences to curse out passing drivers – "Fucking LA traffic - fuck you, braindead son of a whore, _you can't do that_ " – and although he asks politely about Spencer's afternoon meeting and his work, when Spencer shrugs and says that his job's pretty boring, Ryan agrees with him with relief and drops that line of questioning like a hot potato.

Ryan, it turns out, would much rather talk about his job. "It's really great," he says, in a flat tone that belies his enthusiasm, but he nods his head im emphasis. "Working for this guy – I'm kind of seeing his daughter, actually, so we sort of have a bond - is a dream. I mean, it's demanding, you know, but you're, like, part of the music industry, on the inside. I've met so many People."

The capital comes across clearly, and Spencer still knows Ryan well enough to know  
what he means by People.

"…Phantom Planet, Conor Oberst, Florence and the Machine – they're all really nice guys, so down to earth -"

"What came first, the job or the girlfriend?" Spencer asks, interrupting Ryan in the middle of counting over his music industry scalps and giving chapter and verse of all of his close encounters.

Ryan eyes him sideways, but doesn't say anything. "You'll meet her, I guess," he says, tapping his gloved fingers against the wheel. "She's really – she's great. She's in a band, actually. We're thinking of making it Facebook official."

"Facebook official," Spencer says blankly, and Ryan shoots him another look, past the great bug-eyed sunglasses. Someone blares their horn at them.

"Yeah," he says. "I mean, okay, it's kind of limiting for anyone who looks you up, but we've pretty much decided."

"Careful, you don't want to rush into anything too binding."

Ryan blinks solemnly. "You might be right. How's your love life going?"

"Love life?" Spencer says, laughing. "Shit, like I have time."

"For love," Ryan says, in ponderous sibylline accents, "you should make time." Then someone cuts him off and he turns his eyes back to the road, shakes his fist and muttering imprecations and strange oaths.

Spencer drops his stuff off at Ryan's before taking a cab to his meeting. Ryan's not-yet-Facebook Official girlfriend is lying on her stomach on the living room couch, reading, ankles crossed in the air, and when they come in she licks her finger and folds down the corner of her page before jumping up.

"Yeah, so," Ryan says, always eloquent. "This is Z. Z, this is Spencer, my Friend From Vegas."

Meriting the capitals is a surprise, but the girl isn't. Spencer's seen Ryan's girlfriends come and go, and her big dark eyes and golden-brown hair fit right in.

"Hey," she says. Spencer has her filed in his head, and then she grins at him and says "How many motorists did Ryan aggravate on the way over? He's trying to make a name for himself on the road, and I'm thinking of getting him some of those bug-eyed flying goggles and maybe a pair of derringers," and he decides that he likes her.

His meeting is boring as fuck, as predicted; he's too low on the totem pole to be sent to anything less than routine. He gets back to Ryan's at around seven, and the door is opened a crack by a man with long unwashed skeins of tangled hair falling past his shoulders, and fierce, mad eyes, which he opens so wide white nearly shows all around the edges. His face is framed between the door and the doorframe like something out of _The Shining._

"Yeeeees?" he asks, in the hoarse crackled tones of an Igor in a black-and-white monster movie, drawing back his lips from his teeth.

"I think – uh, wrong apartment," Spencer stutters, and over the Igor's shoulder Ryan calls out "It's the friend who's staying with me! Let him in, Alex, for fuck's sake."

Alex stops grimacing and looming abruptly and whips the door open, letting Spencer past. "Sorry, man," he says, slapping Spencer on the shoulder. "Security is so lax here, you can't be too careful." He waves a hand in the air, gesturing at the people crammed into Ryan's small living room, sprawling on the couches and sitting cross-legged on the floor. Some of them have guitars in their laps.

"Fuck you, Greenwald," someone howls.

"I didn't know you were having a party," Spencer says uncomfortably. He's still wearing a tie and his stupid work shoes.

Ryan looks around the room, wide-eyed, and says "I'm not having a party, I'm just – I'm just having a few friends over to jam. They'll be gone in a few hours. Come sit down, have a drink."

Spencer accepts a glass of red wine; he can't really bring himself to sit on the floor in his tailored pants, and so he sort of leans against the wall, watching, and feeling out of place. Incense is burning somewhere, and the smell and smoke make his eyes water.

At some point, Z floats over to him with a pitcher of sangria and insists on filling up his glass. She stays to talk with him for a while, until one of the girls on the other side of the room calls for her, a sloe-eyed girl with pointed breasts and patterned leather cuffs on her wrists. Z grimaces at Spencer in apology, one corner of her mouth going up and the other going down, and then she straightens up and saunters over, carrying the pitcher against her hip.

Ryan captures her when she's halfway across the room, pulling her down into his lap in a tangle of long legs, and in the ensuing confusion the guy from the door steals the sangria. He gets to his feet and throws out his arms, jug clenched in one fist, and shouts "Wine, women and song!" and on cue, someone starts strumming a guitar.

They jam for a while while Spencer watches from the sidelines. When Ryan kisses Z's temple and deposits her in the lap of a girl sitting nearby, getting up and wandering over to the balcony, Spencer picks his way across the floor and follows him out.

Ryan has his elbows on the ledge, wine glass in one hand and cigarette in the other, staring out into the darkness; the canyon is barely visible below them, in the distance, a dark inky blur of silent immensity.

"Hey," Spencer says, and Ryan jumps. "Can I have one?"

"You smoke much now?" Ryan says, but he nods his head at his box of Parliaments and flicks Spencer his lighter.

"Pretty much just when I can get them off someone else," Spencer says, and then the memory of smoking next to Brendon in bed hits him like a wave; something turns over, low in his stomach, and he fumbles the lighter and has to clear his throat. "Hey, I was going to say. I ran into Brendon Urie a few weeks ago."

"Oh," Ryan says, sounding surprised, but he doesn't start to foam at the mouth or snap the stem of his wineglass in his hand. "What's he up to now?"

"You don't seem mad," Spencer observes, which is definitely a contrast to the last time he dared to breathe Brendon's name in Ryan's presence.

"That's because I'm not mad," Ryan explains patiently. "That was a very long time ago, and I'm beyond all that now. I'm on another plane."

"United Airlines?" Spencer asks, and Ryan gives him a flat slantendicular look.

"Of being."

"Ah."

"Being mad would be pointless," Ryan adds. "Some things are fated, and some aren't, and it was a pretty long shot. I didn't have the sort of perspective on things then that I have now." He laughs, self-deprecating. "Plus, I didn't do as many uppers back then as I do now."

"Yeah, well," Spencer says uncomfortably. He wasn't really prepared for a Ryan who was reflective and philosophical about the past. "It was pretty vital, back then. Making it, getting out."

Ryan shrugs and looks away, his cigarette wavering. "Water under the bridge now," he says. "Yeah, things were bad, and I guess – you can't really go and tell your past self that if they just wait, things will get better, can you? They don't want to wait, when stuff sucks right then. But everything happens like it's meant to."

"So you were meant to leave," Spencer says flatly. Once he's said it he can't call it back, and Ryan looks at him quickly and just as quickly looks away.

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, I could've done some things different – but you get where you're meant to be, you know?"

"Do you think you're where you're meant to be?" Spencer asks, and Ryan blows smoke sideways against the wind, and coughs when it rushes back into his face.

"Fuck," he says, croaking. "Yeah, I'm pretty good, except when I do stupid stuff like that. I like my job, you know? And my friends, and this city." He stretches, like a contented cat, and taps the ash off his cigarette. "My life is pretty good."

From him, that's an encomium beyond price. It gives Spencer an unworthy little twist of jealousy and dislike for a moment, staring at Ryan, who has never had to work for anything, who has always had lucky breaks and perfect jobs and golden-haired girls, who sold off his family home and moved away as soon as his father died, and never looked back.

(Ryan who stood burning-eyed in the parking lot staring after Pete's car, and at his father's funeral, and didn't cry; Ryan with his round serious owl-eyes and unserious twist of a mouth, his thin wrists, and the sudden unexpected kindnesses that softened the edges of his self-interest; Ryan of laser tag and paintball and skateboards and homemade bombs, who passed Spencer his water bottle without saying anything when they tried smoking for the first time, even though Spencer manfully pretended he liked it.)

Spencer looks at Ryan for a little while, his profile faint in the dim light, and lets something go. Bitterness, maybe. "Well, I'm glad things worked out for you," he says, and he's actually sincere.

"Things work themselves out," Ryan says. He stubs out his cigarette and pats Spencer's arm benevolently. "You must be pretty tired after your meeting. Was it very boring?"

"Hugely."

"I'll start clearing them out soon," Ryan says, jerking his head in the direction of the living room. "We'll clean up, and you can have the couch all to yourself."

-

An hour or two after they've finally gone to bed, Ryan comes out to get a glass of water; in the darkness, he's a faint blur of smoke and secondhand perfume. Spencer listens to him moving around the kitchen, the clink of glasses and the rush of water from the tap, the dull noise of Ryan knocking into something and the muffled, surprised oath.

"You okay?" Spencer asks from his couch, without opening his eyes.

"Kicked my toe," Ryan says softly, both matter-of-fact and slightly woebegone. "I think someone moved the bench. Except it's kind of attached to the floor."

"Uh-huh."

There are more stifled sounds as Ryan picks his way more carefully across the room, and then the sounds grow clearer and the tobacco and eau de parfum stronger. There's a warm, faintly sour smell beneath it, human and sex and female.

"Spencer?"

"Trying to sleep," Spencer says. "What?"

"You should make time," Ryan says, brushing the long back of his thin hand against Spencer's cheek carelessly and precisely, like he's picking up the conversation right where they left it. His voice is quiet in the darkness, the touch cool from the water glass, and unexpected. Spencer cracks an eye open in surprise, and sees only the vaguest of bent silhouettes, massed black against lesser darkness. "All work and no play, you know what they say."

"I play plenty," Spencer says. "I just – there's just no one special."

"You are such a liar," Ryan says. "It's all okay now, you know. Go in peace, et cetera."

"Shut up." Spencer glowers in Ryan's general direction. He really thinks Ryan's uncanny understanding of him should have expired years ago. Ryan doesn't even know the person he is now.

"There's not really a statue of limitations," Ryan says, and Spencer glowers harder.

"Go to bed before you break a leg or something, wandering around in the dark. You're an accident waiting to happen."

"My friends have a betting pool on me," Ryan admits, sounding regretful. "I think it's up to 2-1 on a leg. Alex has his money on my coccyx because he's a douche, but he won't take Z's bets, which pisses her off." He laughs. "For fear of provoking her into an act of domestic violence in order to scoop the pool, he says."

"What does _she_ say?" Spencer asks. He can feel the tiredness catching up with him again, dragging at his eyelids, slurring his voice.

"She threatens him with non-domestic violence," Ryan says, and Spencer can hear the smile. "Goodnight, man."

Ryan picks his way around the couch and the dining table. The bedroom door creaks and creaks again, and then everything is silent.

They don't talk about it in the morning. Spencer gets his shit together while Ryan tries to make breakfast; he burns four poptarts and lets the water for coffee boil over.

Z wanders out of the bedroom in one of Ryan's shirts, yawning extravagantly. Her legs are very long and brown, delicate as an antelope as she picks her way over the tiles, avoiding the cracks.

"I love the smell of charcoal in the morning," she says, and then her huge dark eyes, made huger by the faded traces of last night's eyeliner, open wider still. "Oh shit, Ryan, the s'more ones?" she asks, tone stricken. She grabs the box, and shakes it fruitlessly upside down. "All my pretty chickens and their dam? You couldn't burn the blueberry ones?"

"The kitchen gods demand the finest sacrifices," Ryan says, hanging his head. "I had to appease them."

"When will the burnt offerings cease?" she asks tragically of the ceiling, setting the box down. Ryan nuzzles at her neck, pressing his lips to the round curve of her shoulder where his shirt is sliding off.

Spencer gets the feeling that this is a conversation they've had before, a morning routine he's not needed to play audience to; they have an echo chamber of their own. He checks through his wallet and makes sure he has his ticket, just for something to do.

Ryan's muttering something about the burning times when Spencer looks up again, while Z has disappeared into the depths of the fridge, obscured from the waist up. "We have eggs," she says when she re-emerges, sounding dubious. She has a case of eggs in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other, holding them with her wrists turned out like Justice with her set of scales. "I think I can do something with them, maybe?"

"She burns things worse than me," Ryan confides, and ducks before Z can bean him with the milk bottle.

Spencer is hungry, the air is faintly acrid with burnt protein, and his flight leaves in two hours. "How do you like your eggs?" he asks, pushing his way into the kitchen.

He makes them sunny-side up, because Z likes the name, and Ryan and Z watch him like twin hawks as he moves around the kitchen, making exaggerated _ooooh_ noises as he cracks the eggshells cleanly and whisks the eggs out of the pan when they're perfectly done.

When they finish breakfast, Ryan says "Well, I guess you have to go," in a flat little voice that is flatter than his usual.

"Maybe we should keep him," Z suggests.

"Yeah, make me an offer I can't refuse," Spencer says, and Z mutters about keeping him against his will, but Ryan still ends up driving him to the airport.

"Here you are, then," he says when they finally pull up. "You need a hand with your luggage?"

"Nah," Spencer says, pushing the door open "I don't have much," he says, swinging his duffel over his shoulder, "and I kind of remember that your idea of helping to carry stuff is kind of, well."

"I was holding my end up that time," Ryan says. "It's not my fault that you dropped - it's been ten years, let it go," he adds hastily when Spencer starts to open his mouth. "You want me to come in?"

"It's okay."

"Great, because I don't want to have to park and shit," Ryan says, sounding relieved. "Plus that security guard over there is kind of looking at me funny."

"You're stopped on a yellow line and your windows are tinted enough to protect a vampire from the sunlight," Spencer points out. "Also you're wearing dark glasses and a beaver cap."

"It's my driving costume," Ryan says, spreading his gloved hands. "Anyway, dude, have a good flight. Say hi for me."

Spencer ignores Ryan's last sentence, and the little grin that accompanies it. "Thanks for driving me out, and letting me crash."

"You're welcome. It was good seeing you," Ryan says, mouth going sweet and serious under the dark glasses. "You should stay in touch better."

Spencer's mouth falls open a little. " _I_ should – never mind," he says, because that's as close as Ryan's ever going to get to apologising out loud. "I'll keep in touch."

"I'd go for a bro-hug now or something," Ryan says, changing tone, "but that security guy's coming over and I'm all illegally stopped and stuff. Next time."

Spencer's barely stepped onto the curb before the car peels off with a screech of tires. He waves half-heartedly after Ryan's dust and starts walking toward the airport.

 

-

He doesn't text Brendon until he's been back nearly a week, and then he sends _Are you free to come over??_

He feels nervous, waiting for his reply and then waiting for him to arrive, which is stupid, because they've hooked up a bunch of times; there's nothing to be nervous about. Telling himself this doesn't stop him startling when the knock sounds on his front door.

"Hi." Brendon's hair looks damp, like he's just taken a shower, his t-shirt is tight across his chest, sticking a little to his stomach, and he grins at Spencer like he's been waiting to see him all day. He's rocking back and forth a little on the thick rubber of his soles, and like always, he's surprisingly _more_ in the flesh than he is in Spencer's head: more volatile, more gorgeous, more real and less able to be kept in a neat little mental box.

"Come on in," Spencer says, and Brendon raises his eyebrows and says severely "You being out of town was very inconvenient for me, you know."

Spencer shuts the door behind them. "Yeah?" he gets out, and then Brendon is in his space, pushing at his shoulders and backing him up against the door, trying to loom over him despite his lack of requisite inches; this is different, this is new.

"Brendon," Spencer says when his spine hits the wood with a dull thump, his hands groping for Brendon's forearms and trying to draw him closer.

"Very inconvenient," Brendon repeats darkly, holding him pinned by his shoulders at arm's length for a moment longer, and then he leans forward and kisses him, pulling back when Spencer tries to deepen it. "I think you're going to make it up to me," he says, wetting his beautiful mouth with the tip of his tongue; Spencer's eyes follow the motion, fascinated. "I hope you didn't have plans tonight."

"Um, not exactly," Spencer starts, and stops when Brendon drops to his knees and starts to open his jeans. "No, wait-"

"Are you turning down a blowjob? Don't bullshit me," Brendon says impatiently, and pushes up Spencer's t-shirt and licks at the slice of skin just above his jeans. His mouth is hot, and when it's gone the thin skin where he licked is shockingly cooler.

Spencer shivers and stops talking.

Brendon says "I thought so," sounding satisfied; there's something edged in his voice, despite the softness. Then his fingers resume their attack on Spencer's fly, brisk and efficient.

"No, seriously," Spencer manages, looking down at the crown of Brendon's bent dark head, the pale curve of his cheek. He runs his hand through the thick hair and fists it tight between his fingers, not hard enough to hurt, until Brendon tips his head back and looks up at him almost irritably.

"I kind of – I wasn't sure if you'd eaten, so I was going to – I sort of made dinner," he admits in a hurry. "I mean, if you've eaten, no problem, but –"

Brendon doesn't say anything for a second. "No, I haven't," he says finally, still looking up at Spencer. His voice is still soft, but the tone is different, surprised and a little cautious. "Okay."

"Great," Spencer says. He doesn't move, and neither does Brendon. Brendon's eyes flick down, flick back up, and he smiles brilliantly.

"I don't suppose it'll keep for later?"

"I wish," Spencer groans.

Brendon sighs, exaggeratedly deep, and says "Man, how very hard our lives are. Give me a hand up?"

-

"It's not much," Spencer says apologetically, getting plates out of the cupboard and rummaging in the cutlery drawer. Brendon sits perched on the kitchen bench, swinging his feet against the cupboards, and doesn't say anything; his silent scrutiny makes Spencer apologise more. "You're not vegetarian, are you? I should know that, I guess, but it hasn't come up – shit," he says, turning off the pasta just before it boils over and draining it hastily in the sink.

"No," Brendon says cordially, and continues to swing his legs.

"Do you want something to drink?" Spencer asks, wiping his hands against his jeans. "I've got a bottle of wine somewhere."

"Oh?"

"It's not anything special!" he says, panicked. "I bought it for a client but I'm out of beer and it's -"

"Wow, you're _really_ bad at this," Brendon says, eyes black and laughing and creased at the corners. He doesn't laugh out loud, but his mouth twitches, as though he's holding it carefully sober at considerable cost.

Spencer kicks a cupboard in frustration, and Brendon says soothingly "Oh, hey," and tugs on his back of his shirt. Spencer lets him reel him in close to the bench and turn him around, and when Brendon kisses him he goes with it, letting his hands settle on Brendon's hips as Brendon's legs wrap around his waist.

"Mm, I like this," Brendon says, with a warm little noise of pleasure as he breaks off the kiss. "We should do this more often."

"You just like being taller," Spencer accuses, and Brendon looks down at him, grinning, and rests his forehead against Spencer's.

"I think your sauce is about to burn," he says, "or I'd suggest we take advantage of this position."

"Oh, _shit_ ," Spencer says, trying to turn, and Brendon laughs out loud this time and lets him go.

He manages to save it before it meets a scorched end, and they eat at the table Spencer barely ever uses, except for spreading out his papers when he brings work home.

"It's good," Brendon says, and Spencer drops his eyes and mutters something.

This was a stupid idea, and he's cursing himself when Brendon finishes and pushes back his chair and walks softly around the table to stand behind Spencer's chair.

Spencer raises his eyebrows, tilting his head back so he can look at Brendon, and Brendon leans down and kisses him on the mouth.

"We have unfinished business," he says brightly, and tugs at the neck of Spencer's shirt. "Come on, the dishes can fuck themselves."

-

Their unfinished business is hard and frantic and not a little desperate; Spencer can't be bothered with prep, so as soon as they're naked he pushes Brendon down onto his bed and rubs his dick mindlessly against Brendon's - no finesse or technique or anything, but it's still so good, so necessary.

"See, this is what I meant," Brendon says later, a little breathlessly, trailing his hand idly up and down Spencer's thigh. "I really like your legs, by the way, have I told you that? They go on for miles, it's just crazy. Anyway, it was a major inconvenience to me, going without this for two weeks."

"I had to, it was work," Spencer mutters, rolling onto his side. Brendon's not any better at the silent basking or dozing than he is sitting still, but at least he's not leaving. "Anyway, I'm sure you didn't run short of pick-ups."

The pause stretches on long enough to become uncomfortable, and then Brendon laughs. "Yeah, I wish," he says. "When would I even have the time? I barely have time to sleep, between the two jobs I'm working, and my gigs."

He folds his hands behind his head and looks up at the ceiling; Spencer looks at him, the lean taut muscle in his arms, the dark hair under them, the fair skin and the part of his lips in profile, the tightness at the corner of his mouth. "So, L.A.," Brendon says finally, like it has anything to do with what they've been talking about. "You haven't told me how that went yet."

"My meeting was really routine shit," Spencer says. "I don't think you'd be interested."

"That's not what I meant."

Spencer shifts until he's sitting up against the bedframe, where he can see Brendon's face properly. "Yeah, I wondered if you were going to ask."

Some expression skims across Brendon's face, but it's gone too fast for Spencer to decipher. "Oh?"

"Ryan said hello, and that he's not pissed at you anymore," Spencer says conversationally. "Which is pretty gracious of him, since what went down was as much his fault as anyone's. Actually, much more."

"Oh," Brendon says, in quite another tone. He grins a little to himself, the corners of his mouth turning up; then the smile drops and he looks directly at Spencer. He looks serious; more serious than Spencer's seen him before. "How did you get on with him?"

"Okay." Spencer shrugs, but Brendon keeps looking at him. "What? I met his girlfriend, I slept on his couch, I made them breakfast. That's pretty much it."

"Oh," Brendon says for the third time, in yet another inflection. "Really? Okay." He lets out a long breath. "I mean, I know we're not -" He stops, and shrugs. "But I guess I'm not a big enough guy to – I was kind of concerned."

"About what?" Spencer demands, sitting up straighter.

"Um, duh," Brendon says. "You were always into him, and then you said you were going to L.A., and you cancelled on me, of course I thought –"

"Not for years," Spencer says, feeling kind of stunned. Then he starts to feel a little outraged. "We were best friends - and he's kind of aggressively heterosexual – have you even met him? Oh, right, you quit the whole fucking band over him-"

"Not _exactly_ ," Brendon starts, and then he stops, looking blank. "You're jealous," he says, and his expression begins to transmute into almost unholy delight; Spencer watches it blossom in his eyes with a sort of dread. "You thought that was why I was asking – holy shit, you're a stupid fuck, Spencer."

"Shut up." Spencer rubs at his face with the palm of his hand, feeling like an idiot. "You forgot 'pathetic.'"

"I prefer 'concerned,'" Brendon corrects him, and then he screws up his face and laughs for what feels to Spencer like several minutes. Spencer throws a pillow at him, but Brendon just bats it away, still laughing. "Okay, I feel much better now," he announces, when he finally stops. "And I want to fuck again."

"I'm not interested," Spencer says stiffly, but Brendon just laughs some more.

"Oh, you're _such_ a bad liar." He presses his mouth to Spencer's shoulder, open and wet, and along his collarbone, rubbing his fingers coaxingly against the dents in Spencer's hips until Spencer stops pretending he possesses dignity that can be affronted and rolls on top of him, getting a knee between his legs.

-

They doze for a while afterwards, and then Spencer's woken up by Brendon trying quietly extricate himself and struggle out of bed.

"Hey," Spencer says softly. "Don't go. Do you have work in the morning?"

"Not tomorrow," Brendon says, just as quietly. "Or today, I guess. I'm just not used-" He breaks off, frowning.

"Do you want to go?"

Brendon looks down at him for a second, still looking preoccupied. "No," he says, finally.

Spencer shifts over and pulls him back down into bed, and throws a heavy arm over him to fix him in place. "Sleep now," he mutters.

"Okay."

Spencer can feel the beat of Brendon's pulse against his side, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. It's not quite the same rhythm as his own, and it feels weird, like his body's straining to switch to the other tempo. He's too hot everywhere Brendon's pressed into him, but he doesn't want to move away.

"I wasn't really – it wasn't," Brendon says by his ear, and Spencer opens his eyes a little, to see his hands opening and closing in accompaniment. "It's just that I was looking around at guys then, without really knowing what I was doing, and he was Ryan and - "

"He liked to be looked at," Spencer fills in sleepily, thinking of Ryan at eighteen; the band t-shirts and tight jeans, the studded belts and wristcuffs, the dyed black hair. The same bittersweet curl of smile, wry and sweet at the same time, that stayed when everything else changed.

"I wish I'd been looking at you," Brendon says very quietly, like a secret, and touches the corner of Spencer's mouth.

"Mmm," Spencer mumbles in agreement. "Me too."

-

In the morning, Spencer is the one who has to get to work, stumbling and sleep-deprived. Brendon lies in bed and laughs at him, watching Spencer stomp around the room buttoning up his white shirt and struggling into his pants and polished shoes, swearing at his narrow black tie as the loop slips from his grasp again. It's annoying, but it feels weirdly right, like something clicking into place.

"Mm," Brendon says, stretching out. "I think I'm going to go back to sleep. You can let yourself out, right?"

"Go fuck yourself," Spencer tells him, without heat. "Get up, I'm making coffee."

"Bribes don't work on me," Brendon tells him sweetly, but when Spencer has coffee and toast and eggs nearly ready, he saunters into the living room in a pair of boxers Spencer recognises as his own, previously residing in one of his dresser drawers.

"I could smell it," he informs Spencer. "I felt like some sort of animal being smoked out of its hole by the delicious scent of caffeine – Fuck, you made breakfast? I'm not even going to gloat at the door when you have to leave now, that's how amazing this is."

"You suck so much," Spencer tells him, and Brendon waggles his eyebrows at him as he swipes a cup of coffee and a plate of food, making a beeline for the couch instead of the table.

Spencer finishes his coffee and crams toast into his mouth with an eye frequently on the clock, but he can't help looking over at Brendon, now and again; Brendon's hair is rough and unbrushed, dark stubble filling in along his jaw, and his mouth is very red as he purses it, drinking, and frowns meditatively at his breakfast as if strategically planning his next assailment on the reserves.

He looks up when Spencer grabs his messenger bag and gets to his feet. "Oh, hey," he says. "I'm playing a gig tonight. Do you want to be my plus-one? If you want to come, that is."

"Sure."

"Okay, then." Brendon grins at him. "It's not really a paying gig, but it's just me, no one else playing. It could lead to some bigger jobs. Don't let Shane – that's my roommate, I'll introduce you – don't let him know you play the drums. He thinks I need a band to get any further, so he keeps trying to hook me up with his cousin, and anyone vaguely musical who happens to be around. Don't get sucked into his nefarious schemes."

"It's been a long time since I played," Spencer says. "I bet I suck now. You wouldn't want me to play in your band."

"I don't have a band, and I don't _want_ a band, but of course you'd be good enough, you were awesome," Brendon starts. Then he narrows his eyes. "I see what you did there," he accuses. "Maybe I don't want you to meet Shane."

"You can't stop me," Spencer says, "I'm your plus-one," and Brendon smiles slowly.

"Yeah," he says. "You are."


End file.
